


Demi Moore, eat your heart out

by douady



Series: SPN Kink Bingo [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fingering, Ghost Possession, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Masturbation, Other, References to previous possessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-09 00:24:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17396600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/douady/pseuds/douady
Summary: Contrary to his brother’s belief, Sam doesn’t actually get turned on by research. So why is he suddenly hard for no reason in the middle of this hunt?





	Demi Moore, eat your heart out

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN Kink Bingo for the "mutual masturbation" square. I hope this counts. I kind of took this prompt and ran in a very weird direction with it.

The first thing that Sam notices is his erection.

Sam’s not a prude. He has sex, jerks off. Maybe not at the rate that Dean does, but he’s pretty sure that there are porn stars who would be hard pressed to keep up with Dean’s libido.

But he normally doesn’t do it in the middle of a hunt. And sure, it’s a nothingburger of a hunt—bunch of ghost sightings, no deaths—but Sam’s a professional. There’s a time and place.

Dean doesn’t necessarily agree, which is why he’s out a bar, scoping out the local prospects. Sam had begged off to continue researching. They’d already interviewed the victims, visited the bookstore that was the only commonality between all five of them. After getting a hit on the EMF meter and a chill down his spine Sam’s trying to figure out if anyone ever died there. If he finds something they hopefully won’t be forced to go all Fahrenheit 451 on the contents of the store.

So he’s hanging back at the motel, on his laptop, looking into local newspaper records.

Which is all to say that nothing that’s happening explains why Sam is suddenly hard enough to cut diamonds.

He looks down at his fed suit slacks, which are noticeably tented.

Huh.

It’s disconnected from everything else. He’s not really turned on, just hard. It’s not Sam’s normal M.O. He likes to have his brain engaged with whatever goes on below his belt. His jerk off staples—Rio, Han Solo, Dean—all flicker through his head, but nothing sticks. He’s not thinking of anything particularly sexy. (Despite Dean’s jokes, Sam doesn’t actually get off on research.) And yet he’s pretty sure he’s never been this turned on in his life.

On autopilot, he presses a hand against his pants. The moment it makes contact pleasure zings up his spine and he groans. He’s _sensitive_.

He stands—awkwardly—and paces away from the table a few steps.

Something tickles at his nose and he rubs it, absently checks his hand. Black goo is smeared across the back of it.

Ectoplasm.

Oh, fuck.

Sam suddenly has a very good idea why none of their interviewees had wanted to talk about their encounter with the spirit.

Another wave of pleasure rolls over him, sending his thoughts skittering off course.

He staggers over to the nearest bed—not even his, Dean’s—and collapses onto his back, feet still on the floor. The brush of his clothes against his skin is too much and he fumbles at the buttons on his dress shirt before giving up and moving to his belt. He pulls it open with jerky movements that aren’t all his own. He rips his shirt up, losing a button somewhere, and yanks his boxer briefs down below his balls.

The first touch of his hand to his dick sends fire racing through his gut.

Holy fuck.

He pumps himself a few times, distractedly. Or maybe that's not him at all. Through the relief of finally getting his hand on his dick he can feel it, under his skin. A presence. It’s not malicious, not like some of the other spirits Sam has felt.

Just… really horny.

Well, at least none of the other victims died.

A large part of Sam is pretty creeped out by his body being hijacked by Casper the Horny Ghost.

But the other large part of Sam is definitely getting into it.

There’s another tidal wave of pleasure, but this time Sam’s prepared for it. He’s starting to figure out how to differentiate between his own bodily reactions and what the ghost pushes on him.

He’s Sam Winchester, and this ghost doesn’t know what it’s in for.

Through this all his hands haven’t been still. One fist’s still leisurely pumping his cock, the other sinking down to rub his balls before running up and down his still clothed chest. He can feel the ghost direct the palm of his hand to rub in circles around the stiff nubs of his nipples.

Every touch feels electric. His head swims like he’s not getting enough air and he pants heavily as his thumb rubs a circle around the head of his cock.

There’s some separation between Sam and the thing inside of him. The gap isn’t as clear-cut as a demon or an angel but just that little bit of daylight allows for Sam to _push_.

White fog rises up from his body like steam, but it’s freezing and his skin pebbles with goosebumps as it passes. His breath clouds in the air. There's a glimpse of pale blue eyes before the ghost presses back down inside his skin.

He lays still, hands pressed flat to the bedspread on either side of himself, though his dick is still rock hard.

The ghost is quiet inside of him. Sam could almost believe that it’s gone, but he knows better.

There’s a nudge at his consciousness, a question.

“Not very polite to molest people like this,” Sam says into the still room.

There’s contrition.

But the ghost isn’t leaving.

Spirits are creatures of habit. They fall into patterns that they repeat mindlessly. The longer they exist, the worse it gets. This ghost must not be very old, if it can still be reasoned with, but reasoning can only go so far.

“Can you let me do my own thing?”

He can’t sense an answer, but his body is still, so he takes that as an affirmative.

 The touch of his hand on his cock is still as overwhelming as it was earlier. Jerking off hasn’t felt this good since he was a teenager. It’s like his nerves have all doubled.

The thought occurs to him that he’s feeling the ghost’s pleasure too and it’s way hotter than it should be.

Without the spirit pushing at him Sam’s able to set his own, less frenetic pace. He slides up the bed, shimmying his pants dowm to bunch below his knees. He’s still got his shoes on, digging into the bedspread. Without his underwear constricting his legs he’s able to let his knees fall apart, the cool air across his junk sends a shiver through him.

He pumps slowly, squeezing gently as he goes. His mind rifles through some of his greatest hits before settling on Dean.

His other hand trails up his body to his mouth and he sucks two fingers in. Sam knows the exact size and weight of Dean’s cock on his tongue. His fingers don’t come close, but memory fills in the gaps. He moans around the digits as he feels an excitement not his own build in his gut.

It’s a little too intense. He moves the hand on his dick down to his balls, tugging a little, trying to take the edge off. The fingers in his mouth press down on his tongue, poke back into the back of his throat until he’s gagging a little on them. They’re wet when he takes them out and presses them down below his balls, lifting his hips so he can circle the fingers around his hole.

He hasn’t done anything like this in a while and he doesn’t want to bother getting lube so he mostly runs them around the hot puckered flesh. Just like his dick it’s so sensitive that even feather-light presses rocket pleasure up his spine.

But his guest isn’t satisfied with just that. A finger presses in on its own and Sam arches into it, other hand working his cock faster. He’s losing control but the fire that’s consuming every inch of him can’t be contained anymore. His finger presses deeper and behind his closed eyelids he sees Dean, leaning over him, the squinted look of concentration he gets when they do this. He’s struck suddenly by the beauty of his brother’s face, the clear green of his eyes, an image Sam’s knows better than his own but now his perspective is skewed as he sees it anew through another’s eyes.

His finger reaches that spot inside himself that usually sends sparks racing across his skin but today it’s like touching a livewire. He gasps into it.

Images flicker through his mind, ones he doesn’t recognize. A girl's pretty smile. A boy with a brilliant laugh. Memories that aren’t his pour into his mind as his passenger edges closer to climax. Their pleasure cascades into Sam and he lets it sweep him along. He sees who they are, not just on the surface but all the way down to their restless soul.

It’s what Sam needed, the key to the hunt. He can help them now, help them move on.

Sam presses his fingers hard against his hole as he thrusts up into his hand.

Suddenly the sensation crests and everything goes white behind his eyelids. He’s not sure how long it takes to come back to himself, seconds or minutes, but when he does his hand and shirt are sticky with come. He’s still breathing hard, deep breaths.

The ghost is gone.

Sam lets out a long sigh of relief.

Which is, of course, when the door to the motel room opens.

“Jesus Christ, Sam.”

Sam’s aware of how he looks: collapsed on Dean’s bed, clothes only half off, shirt tacky with come, spent dick hanging out of his underwear. But he’s also too exhausted to be embarrassed, so he just turns his head. Dean’s closing the door behind him, eyes wide.

Sam gives him a tired grin. “I found the ghost.”


End file.
